


Shadows on a Cave Wall

by Sarielle



Series: Shermaine Pines AU [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Also Demon Possession probs, Asexual Character, Bill's a dick but he's fun to write, Bisexual Male Character, Demiro/Ace Ford, Drabbles, Gen, Gods I just want these nerds to be happy, I am not fond of the 70s but I will preservere, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jewish Pines Family, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Bill and Post-Bill, Psychotic Ford, Science Antics in Oregon, Science Boyfriends, Stanford Pines is gay for Tesla, This has the potential to get fucked up bc thats who i am as a person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarielle/pseuds/Sarielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling like I don't write near enough Ford Pines in "The Life and Times of Shermaine Pines", and seeing as I'm very stressed neurodivergent gay Fiddauthor trash, I decided to post the drabbles separately.</p><p>A series of moments in the six years Dr Stanford Pines and Mr Fiddleford H McGucket, took up residence in the sleepy Oregon town of Gravity Falls. Insights into their research, their relationship and their discoveries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June and Stanford (June 1978)

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Bill circa 1976?, probably just a bit after chapter 2 of Shermy. Ford and Fidds haven't been in Oregon that long. I wanted to develop how Ford interacts with his hallucinations and how normalized and boring they are to him, I really like the idea of Psychotic Ford because it adds a whole different level to his interactions with Bill as well as his relationship with Fidds, who would have no reason not to belive Bill wasn't a hallucination. (also my ND ass is starved of representation give me my paranoid old man back)

Ford awoke in his darkened study, alone. The notes he’d scribbled out earlier in his frustrated late night exasperation stuck to his face. They were getting nowhere fast.

 Fidds must have gone home by now, Ford thought.The house was quiet, except for creaking beams and pine needles brushing against the windows in the wind.

Fidds had draped a blanket over Ford’s sleeping frame and it fell to the ground when he sat upright. His assistant was far too good to him.

“You’re awake.” Said a woman’s voice. It was the small hours of the morning. He wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there. Dr Stanford Pines jumped a mile and squawked in surprise.

“Whossat? Mi-Michelle is that you?” Michelle McGucket had only dared to visit her husband's place of work once before and Stanford was _so_ not looking forward to a repeat of that incident.

“Breathe, Stanford it’s just me.”  The speaker appeared out of thin air; a demure looking young woman with dark hair and eyes. In dated 1940s clothing: tarnished black heels, stockings and a full-skirted cornflower blue day dress.

Everything about her, her face, her clothes her accent. It was all gratingly familiar. A soft whispering familiar like a half-remembered face from a dream.

 He knew what that wispy, insubstantial feeling meant.

“I know you. You’re _not real_. You’re a hallucination.”

The woman was inspecting her long painted blue fingernails, completely unfazed.

“Correct." She said. "Well, regarding the hallucination part anyway, reality is relative and I take umbrage at the implication that mine is any less valid than yours.”

“Do you have a name?” He asked because well he at least had some semblance of good manners. “Why are you here?”

“You tell me, smart guy. I’m only what you make of me.” She sat down on the stool Fiddleford had bought in that afternoon, to reach the top of the bookshelves.

She crossed her legs so that her heels clicked together and smoothed down her petticoats, her armed folded stern across her chest. Ford observed this with a tired detachment.

“Is this some kind of awkward Freudian nonsense, because I _so_ do not have time to be parsing the usual embarrassments my subconscious dishes out.”

“I'm not some kind of _fantasy woman_ if that's what you’re asking”, and she laughed to herself, she had a harsh laugh, very nasal, very familiar.  “What would even be the _point_? Remember what happened with the Sirens?

He felt his cheeks turn crimson, if there had been any doubt this woman was a hallucination that had cemented it.

 “Stanford please. If your subconscious wanted me to be _alluring_ I'd no doubt appear as some rare cryptid, maybe a keeper of ancient lore-“

 She paused to pick up the graduation photo on his desk, in it, younger Ford stood beaming with his arm around Fidds’ shoulder and his undergraduate diploma in his fist. He was elated, staring at the other man with a stupid soppy look on his face. 

Ford’s heart skipped a beat every time he looked at it. He was so stupid, so embarrassingly obvious.

Now his own subconscious was going to roast him for being so damned pathetic.

The woman’s lips curled up like runner vine and she gave him a smug sidelong glance. Ford groaned aloud.

 “-Or maybe I'd appear as something _closer_ to home.” she added with a wink.

“Not funny.” said Ford, his voice cold, his cheeks glowing radioactive. She set the photo down, smirking.

Well then, as a figment of your imagination, I ask you to at least respect that I know how you work”.

“Glad to know someone understands how I feel.” He smiled dryly, glasses hanging sideways down his face from where he’d been sleeping, he pushed them back up his nose.

 “Even if I am just talking to old photos in an empty house”

The hallucination beamed, face lighting up like white phosphorous. “You recognise me.”

Stanford nodded. “I don't know how I didn't notice it before.”he said.

“Where am I from Stanford? Who am I?

Ford sighed, disparaging himself for not getting it earlier. “You're my mother. From an engagement photo of my parents that hung on the landing of the house I grew up in.”

He could see the photo in his mind’s eye, above the second to last step on the second story.

His father, dark haired without his signature shades, his arm around the waist of the woman who sat in front of Ford.

“Am I your mother? Tell me then: what's my name?” She was staring, unblinking at him with keen dark eyes.

 Ford shrugged, made even more uncomfortable by her stare that wasn’t quite human.

 “My mother’s name is Opal, but that's not the answer you want is it? He said.

“I’m not your mother Stanford, I’m a projection, and you don’t have to give me her name if it makes you uncomfortable.

Everything in his journals needed a name for documentation reasons. It was getting to the point where unlabelled things made him upset, she needed a name.

He looked around the study for inspiration but there instead were a lot of old books, cobwebs and a clock reminding him it was 2:27am.

 “What about June?” He pointed out the calendar hung on the wall to her, he didn’t know why.

She had no awareness of her own. Politeness he reassured himself, he didn’t believe June was really happening, _did he_?

She ducked her head in a polite little curtsey. “I'll take whatever I can get, thank you.”

 Ford stretched, cracking his knuckles. “What do you want from me, June?

The woman laughed. “I just want you to look after yourself Ford. Drink some water, take your medication and get some sleep now. That's all.

 He quirked an eyebrow, disbelieving. “Oh _joy of joys_ , has my self-care really got so shoddy my own brain has to generate someone new just to get me to sleep more?”

“Maybe? I honestly don’t know. I’m a Cartesian response, Stanford. Plato’s flickering reflections on the cave walls. Or the brain in a vat if you like that argument better.” June’s voice didn’t belong to his mother, he noted.Her clipped consonants and rounded vowels were far too British in annunciation, likely borrowed from someone else Stanford had met.

Not even his hallucinations were composed of original thought. “I’m a simulation, you see?”

“I see, and I’m fine thank you. I don’t discuss methodological scepticism with hallucinations.”

“Well it’s hardly _my_ fault you cut yourself off from the one person whose entire existence was to keep you safe from harm.”

“Don’t.” He wanted the word to sound powerful and angry, but it came out as more of a whimper. ”Don’t go there, don’t even look at him. I know you’re from my mind but, he’s _off limits_.”

The woman harrumphed to herself, picking at her nails. “Just go to bed, sixer.”

“Don’t call me that.” Ford hissed, through thin lips.         

“Oh _I’m sorry_ , what would you prefer? _Poindexter_? _Freak? Four-eyes? Nerd? Ley’s little shadow_?”

“Stop it. _Stop it_ right now. I- I command you”

“You don’t command jack shit, Fordy.” She laughed again haughty and nasal, the laugh that she’d stolen from his mother.

“You don’t even have command over yourself, I mean really now?”

she shook her neatly-coiffed 40’s pompadour with a berry-lipped smirk and waved a hand to his reflection in the window.

“Look in the mirror, kid. If you go another day without shaving you’re going to be indiscernible from your brother.”

Ford made a noise of exhausted disgust, he rested his stubbly face in his hands.

“If you’re not going to sleep, at least take your medication and get another cup of coffee.”

“I’m _fine_ , I don’t _need_ it.” He sounded like a child, even in his own ears. _You’re twenty-six, man, snap out of it._

“ _Oy_ , it’s like tryin’ to talk to a brick wall.” June’s accent distorted and morphed in her frustration from her impassive, upper-class British accent to Opal Pines’ permanently exhausted, Yiddish-smattered New Jersey drawl. “Ya know Pines for a certified genius you can sure be dense.”

“I’m aware, June.” He chuckled, the words rolling bitter off his tongue like chicory. “I’m well aware.”

“D’you wanna talk about it?” she asked leaning back on her stool.

The scientist scoffed. “Yes, _real smooth_ , Ford, have a heart to heart with a projection of your mother. No offense to you, June, but Freud must be doing a barrel roll in his grave right now.

June sighed. “You won’t talk to anyone _real_ , you haven’t contacted home in months. What about your parents, your sister?”

That at least struck a chord, Ford looked sufficiently guilty. “I’ve been busy. I’ll give ‘em a call.” he murmured.

“No you won’t. Don’t lie to me. That little girl thinks the world of you. Don’t let her down like you did her brother.”

“Which brother‘s that, then?” he snapped, hadn’t he told her to leave the subject Stanley alone.

“You can extrapolate, Ford.” June smacked her lips, uncrossing then re-crossing her arms across her chest. “You’re a smart guy.” 

The sound sent shudders of trepidation down his spine like a Pavlovian response: when Opal Pines smacked her lips together like that it meant imminent shit going down for one or both twins.

“What do I hafta do to get you ta leave me alone?” His eyelids felt like sandpaper, he was losing his articulation quickly but, an almost childish tendril of pride whispered to him to not give in to the hallucination’s demands.

“Take your meds, go to bed, and promise me you’ll talk to another human being tomorrow. That’s it. Those are my demands.”

“What about Fidds? I talk to him all the time!” Even Ford had to admit he sounded kind of pathetic, fighting with a shadow. But what else had he been doing since he moved to Oregon if not chasing shadows?

June groaned, and made his mother’s specific Yiddish noise of disproval, which was a cross between a snort and a sigh.

“I don’t think we agree on what counts as talking. Standin’ around all awkward like making a schmuck of yourself, only discussing work when you have to, is not talkin’ Fordy.”

He shrugged. “Yeah well, _I_ didn’t ask for all this unnecessary…complications, June.” He said, gesturing back at Fidds’ photo. “This doesn’t happen all that often for me.”

“I dunno, you were pretty gay for Nikola Tesla in freshman year.” Said the hallucination, deadpanning.

His cheeks were scarlet again. “I was _not_.”

“Stanford honey, I’m from your subconscious. I was there.”

 _“I_ _was not_ _gay for Tesla_!” he spat.

 June just giggled, which quickly broke into a full-throated guffaw of mocking laughter.

“Do you ever hear yourself talk sometimes, Stanford?” she asked, covering her berry-coloured mouth with the back of her hand.

He tried to ignore her, then thought better if it.

“Fine, I’m packing it in. You win or whatever. Wait, surely that means I win?” He shook his head, pushing his glasses up his nose again. He moved about the room collecting the previous day’s notes into a neat pile on his desk. June didn't answer. 

“Fuck it, don’t care at this point. I’m going to bed.” He said, yawning. The clock read 2:43.

“Take your meds, first.” Stars above, this woman sounded more like his mother than his mother did.

“On it.” His lids were closing, he needed to get to his bedroom, but the meds were in the kitchen.

He rose from his desk chair sluggishly and headed for the door, turning the study lights off. He looked back into the room.

The woman, June, stood up from her stool when he did, and stepped into the light of the doorway.

“Then, my work here is done.” She said, smiling. Her skin slowly fading in opacity.

“Hey, June.” Ford held up a hand to stop her.

June returned to solid colour. “Yes?”

“I recognise ya not real an’ all but still…” he paused, his train of thought lost in the mist of his brain, his accent drawling from his sleep-deprived lips.

“Um…thanks and everythin’.” He rubbed the back of his neck, _he really was as awkward as she said, wasn’t he?_

“Take care of yourself, Ford.” She whispered back, and her body sublimed into the air in a blue smoke.

Ford closed his study door behind him, and headed like a dead man to the kitchen.


	2. Eggs & Domesticity (October 1978)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A unusually normal morning at 618 Gopher Rd, Gravity Falls. Or where even figments of Ford's imagination can tell he's smitten, and he's not very pleased about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates on this, I've been juggling mental health stuff, uni and getting Shermy written i'd kinda left this alone while my head righted itself. Writing Psychotic Ford is like a coping mechanism for me but also weirdly draining. However I have more of this written so gaps shouldn't be so bad, there will be less of the one-sided Fiddauthor and more of the fun and games with Bill Cipher possessing your boyfriend variety.

Stanford Pines was having a pretty okay morning, he’d slept for seven whole hours the night before which these days was great. To top it off Fidds’ Mrs had sent him grocery shopping the evening earlier so he’d actually bought fresh milk in to work.  

Ford had woken entangled in a prison of his bedclothes, only to be greeted with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and slightly burnt toast.  He’d pulled on pants and shuffled into the kitchen where his friend and assistant was sitting at his dining table bathed in late morning sun. A thick covered book lay open on the table in front of him next to a plate of toast. He held a micro screwdriver in one hand disassembling what looked to Ford like some kind of old motherboard.

Fiddleford waved a hand backwards as Stanford entered the kitchen without looking at him, the guy had an eerily keen sense of hearing. His eyes didn’t shift from his work.

“Mornin’ Ford.” he did eventually turn his head to look at his partner who lurked in the doorway hurriedly buttoning his shirt with tufts of brown hair sticking out in all directions like a poor man’s imitation Einstein. “You oversleep?”

“Yeah, Morning.” He glanced at the clock” Half past ten. “A little, why? What’s the occasion?” he gestured a hand towards the kitchen, which for once in its brief existence resembled a clean and functional modern kitchen, rather than just another extension of their lab.

Fidds rubbed an eye, removing some lingering traces of sleep there.

“You ever been around an eight-month-old who’s teethin’? It’s like living with a darned air raid siren.”

Ford thought back to Shermy at that age, a couple of years gone by now but not long enough that he’d forgotten all the crying.

“Ah.” He chuckled, with a wry smile. “Tate reached the fun stage of child development, huh?”

“Just like his mother, with all that darn screamin’.” Fiddleford harrumphed to himself. “Coffee’s on the counter.” He added noticing Ford was still standing around like a lost shoe.

Stanford looked over and saw the full percolator on the stove. He rubbed at his face, feeling his stubble. _Stars above, he needed caffeine_

“Thanks, so all this-“he gestured around the kitchen again. “- is less of a celebration, and more of an escape for ya.” He could appreciate that, he’d done his fair share of escaping his own family.

“You have no idea how right you are, Ford” His friend said with a laugh, picking up his half-eaten slice of toast.

“I bet Michelle was happy with that.” Ford said with a smile, as he poured himself a cup of coffee and took his medication, leaning against the kitchen counter gazing out at the patterns of the leaves he could see from the window on this bright fall morning in sleepy Oregon.

Fidds laughed into his toast, crumbs flying everywhere.

“Doubt it,” he said with a hint of bitterness “I think she’s allergic. Happiness gives her hives.”

“What you working on there, Fidds?”

“Nothin important just tryin my hand at a Universal Remote.”

“For what?”

“Everythin’-“he said with a small smile, and _what a smile it was,_ thought Ford. “That’s why it’s _universal_ ”

Ford wanted to show interest, he was very interested in what Fidds had to say, and his devotion to engineering was remarkable, the man was dismantling clockwork over breakfast.

He could say something like ‘Oh that’s fascinating Fiddleford. Tell me more about that.’ _It wasn’t like the words were difficult to say_ , he berated himself.

They just didn't come out of his mouth.

What was he standing around for? Why was his brain sticking like a jammed record? _Talk to him Ford. He’s your best friend. He’s the only friend you’ve still got._

Ford, though he’d never admit it aloud, he was objectively terrible at making and maintaining friends. When presented with a new acquaintance he froze up and stuttered out something stupid. Or worse he ended up talking about himself or his work for half an hour until the other people felt sufficiently excluded and left him alone.

He didn’t know why he did it either, he wasn’t even aware of it when it happened. If strangers wanted to talk about Medieval European theories of alchemy or astrophysics or Navajo Code Talkers or any of his numerous other specialised subjects of interest he would talk and talk and never shut up, but otherwise small talk was just another formula he had memorised ‘My Name is X I go to Y my major is Z, how are you?’ Except with people you were never guaranteed the right answer.

He didn’t like that. It was a waste of time.

 Life was short and the house Ford had grown up in was one of few words. His father, the paragon of bluntness hardly ever spoke in sentences longer than a word, and if he did he was trying to sell you something.

 It was true his Ma talked professionally, sure, but none of it was of any consequence, pseudo-science and astrology mumbo-jumbo, cold reading and lies. His brother had much more time for all her nonsense than he did, no Ford’s study of the occult was _strictly_ scientific.  

“You alright there, Ford?” Was that genuine concern on Fiddleford’s face or was he just projecting? He’d found himself wondering that a lot lately but he never really knew how to tell the difference.

Ford nodded. “Um yeah… just thinking...” He’d forgotten where this train of thought was going. What was he even doing in the kitchen, wasn’t he making breakfast?

He took another sip of coffee, and spied the carton left out on the counter.

 “Are these eggs good to eat?”

“I don't see why they wouldn't be,” said his partner eyes back on his work.

“Fidds, do you ever wonder how we survived this far into adulthood?” he asked pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Nah, you just gotta be grateful natural selection is a long-term game, my friend. I sure am.”

Ford laughed. “I’ll take your sage advice. Oh wise one.” He said grasping for a pan.

“Do ya want any, Fidds or are you good” he gestured vaguely at the pan.

Fiddleford furrowed his brow. “Depends what yer offering?”

Ford turned an alarming shade of pink.

“Eggs?” he squeaked. Mortified, he turned the noise into a fake sneeze and turned away from the food ‘sneezing’ into his elbow.

“Bless you.” Fiddleford replied on automatic, he slipped his screwdriver behind his ear and glance Ford’s way.

“Thanks. Do you want some? Uh- Eggs that is?”

“Yes, thank you kindly.” His partner said watching him with a look of fond bemusement.

Ford turned around to face the stove.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thought to himself, _I’m being ridiculous_.

Oh _honey_ , said a woman’s voice: a very delicate east coast accent, and a constant sense of condescension. _You are a disaster._ _It’s like watching the Heisenburg in slow motion._

He recognised this voice, though she didn’t manifest a physical form, she wasn’t a constructive force like June was, she was annoying and derogatory, and kind of sounded like his brother’s old girlfriend, Carla McCorkle.  Fidds was in the room so he dared not respond to her.

Instead staring at the pan as the proteins in the eggs began to denature and fry and moving them accordingly.

 Sizzle, Lift, Flip, Repeat.

  _This isn’t the way you thought you’d spend your days is it? Mooning forever over some guy you fucked once in college like a lovesick little girl?_

Ford’s knuckles whitened around the spatula, he scraped at the eggs before they burned. Desperate to think about anything else than _that specific_ awkward memory.

“That’s a little harsh.” He whispered under his breath. But hey at least no one was trying to get him to stick his hand in the hot pan or something similar, he noted. That was a plus.

Not-Carla lacked much of the wit and tact of the real woman, and she had none of McCorkle’s quiet kindness or generosity.

A mocking laugh echoed in one ear and rolled around to the other, like she was quickly circling his face, round-and-round in circles like a ghost.

She tittered to herself. Ford couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

 _You’re a physicist, she_ crowed, _it’s not like you to get so enraptured in_ chemistry.

 _Ooh puns, really Carla? Am I supposed to be impressed?_ He thought aggressively in the direction he believed she was coming from, biting the inside of his top lip to make sure he kept his mouth shut.

Outwardly Stanford grabbed two plates one for him and one for Fiddleford, he served up his friend’s plate first then his own. He ignored Not-Carla’s continued jibes at his appearance, his sexuality, his interests and more. He brought both plates over to the dining table and smiled at his research partner’s expression of intense concentration on his remote.

"There ya go, Fidds.” He said setting the plate down in from of him.

“Much obliged.” Fidds replied, smiling so wonderfully, once again.

Ford moved to pull up a chair next to him, but something grabbed his wrist hard.  He flinched and looked back in alarm to see what it was. All he saw was his regular six-fingered hand on the back of the chair, nothing out of place.

He sighed. _Get it together, Pines_. He told himself. Not-Carla snickered.

“You, okay there, friend?” Fidds asked, a hint of worry on his young features.

Ford shrugged, digging in to his eggs.

“Yeah I’m fine." he offered a weak smile.  "The caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet, I’m a little twitchy.” He lied.

Fiddleford nodded, he knew he didn’t believe him, but he didn’t bother him about it either, and for that Ford was profoundly grateful.

He’d be even more grateful for a change in topic.

His friend had him covered. “How far did you get with inscriptions after I left last night?”

“Antares through to Regulus, I’m happy with. The other seven might need another look at.”

“I reckon I could get those done by today, if they’re crucial.”

“Fidds you are an absolute _angel_.”

“I get that a lot.” Fiddleford said with a snorting laugh, his smile lit up by the sun, fork paused midway to his mouth. “But for you it’s no trouble.”

Ford smiled back, trying to ignore the heat that blossomed on the tips of his ears. He was comfortable in his own house, in his own kitchen discussing star charts over breakfast with his best friend in the world.

Stanford Pines was having a pretty good morning, after all.

 


	3. Whiskey and Developments (January 1979)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe if it wasn't for Bill, they wouldn't have gotten together. But neither Fidds or Ford was going to thank him for the way that the situation arose.
> 
> tw for: hallucinations, intrusive thoughts, negative self-talk, unreality and possession, alcohol mention, sort of self-harm/ destructive behaviours but not majorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I haven't updated this in over a month, I'm really sorry but I tend to underestimate how flimsy this is for me to write. I love Ford and writing psychotic ford but i have to be in a very specific mindset to get the style right and with exams and medication changes I've just having a bunch of difficulty with this, but anyway finally this important chapter is brought you by me, who like my Ford is gay and unstable. Have some proper developments. 
> 
> Another interesting thing bought up in this chapter, Fiddleford knows about Bill, but Fiddleford doesn't know he's a demon thinks Bill is actually a psychotic symptom, something similar to an alter in people and systems with DID. Consequently he is a lot more tolerant of his dickish equilateral frat-boy bullshit than he really should be. Ford hasn't bothered correcting his friend because it provides him with a convenient cover story and Ford doesn't want to tell him that really he's a magical 'muse' he summoned from an ancient cave telling him not to summon him. Because Ford thinks Fidds would get the wrong idea from that (i.e he's a reckless idiot who is easily conned by flattering triangles)
> 
> Note: I find this style a lot harder to edit than prose I write normally so bear with me, I will be double checking grammar and spelling and the suchlike, even after this is posted.

As a rule, Ford wasn't much one for alcohol. He could take or leave the taste of ethanol, it was the effects of the stuff he worried about. He drank in college, everyone did, it was _the seventies_ there was weed and booze aplenty and even a hard-working straight A student like Ford took a break on occasion. It wasn't even that he was a bad drunk. At the most he just got really excited about math and drawing, he remembered one night he and Fidds had split a jar of moonshine and Ford had woken up with a headache and an answer to Fermat’s last theorem stuck to his face, beside it a detailed pencil portrait of his roommate asleep.

No, by Pines family standards, drunk Ford was practically a saint, but he still didn't like drinking. Ever since he was diagnosed in the second year of undergraduate Stanford struggled with the constant heavy stomached feeling that if he accidentally hit some mental switch all the bad things in his mind would come out of his mouth and everyone would know how terrible of a person he really was.  They’d probably have him sectioned, his grant money taken away, research compromised.

Drinking meant a set of scales weighing things up at all times in his head. If he did that shot of vodka would it be the key that was needed to loosen all his delusions and fucked up unwanted thoughts? To free them, pouring out from his lips like sap from a tree. People would know, people would _know_ , people could find him and he wouldn't be safe anymore. So Ford quit drinking except from the occasional whiskey at times such as this, when Fidds was upset.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Fidds was sitting in his armchair the living room staring into the roaring fireplace. The whiskey bottle and two crystal glasses sat on the table in between them, a testament to his partner’s mood.

Fiddleford didn’t move his blue eyes from the flames, but he licked his lips and hesitated before speaking.

“I don't know, Stanford. I know yer not really one for this kinda thing.” Outside it was pitch black and the wind howled at the cracks under the doors. It was a crisp evening in early January and the temperature was in the low thirties, the snow was still coming down sporadically but it wasn’t too deep to drive in. Fidds would be able to get home safe, if he wanted to.

“What kind of thing’s that then?” Said Ford, taking the empty glass and pouring himself a small amount of whiskey. He sniffed it first before taking a sip, a force of habit to check it didn’t smell of poison.

Fidds’ sighed, he made a series of vague, wheel-like gestures in the air with both hands.

“Y’know Ford. _Feelings_ …” he said, frustration cracking his voice.

Stanford bit the inside of his cheek. “Oh, I see.” He said, though he didn’t see at all, and that was kind of the point his partner was trying to make.

Fiddleford grunted. “Yeah.”

Well you're right, I'm a man of science. Emotions aren't my forte but I'm not a robot, Fidds.”

 _Just tell him you care about him asshole._ Ford didn’t pause to determine if that comment come from inside or outside of his head.

His partner’s eyebrows shot up, he turned back to Ford concern etching lines on his forehead.

“Oh Stanford, I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”

“You know I care what you think right? I mean I care…” He faltered. “No wait, um… ah- what I meant to say is…” He paused, rolling face-first into his words. He had to take a deep breath and pull himself out of if it, to start again in the hope his brain would stop sticking.

“Look, you're my friend Fidds, if you're upset then of course I'm gonna be concerned about you. I don't want you to feel like you can't come to me with things. You _can_ trust me is all I'm saying. This doesn’t have to be all work, work, work.”

“I know that, Ford, and I do trust you. I just...” He cleared his throat, nervous. “It’s personal and I'm just overthinking I know I am.”

Fear. Calm and Cold. His blood turning to ice in a chain reaction in his veins. Ford gulped back more whiskey.

A whispered voice in his ear, his own voice.  _Oh god, oh god, he knows_. Ford dug his nails hard into his palms but said nothing. A bead of blood sprung up on the pale leathery skin of his palm. He stared at it, disinterested. _Make more blood_. Said a different voice. Ford ignored it.

Fiddleford was still staring into the fire like the flames themselves could solve his problems. Pyromancy that was called, the Greeks used it as means of divination, and renaissance humanists counted it as one of the seven _artes prohibitae_ or forbidden arts. Ford sensing a derailment in his train of thought tried to focus his attention back on what his friend was saying.

“I don't know what else to do, Ford.” Fiddleford hung his head eyes still staring off into the fire. “It’s getting to the point where I’m only happy when I'm here, and when I'm at home the missus and I are either fighting or running around after our little Tater tot.” He looked up with a small smile at his son’s nickname but it faded quickly.  “I don't remember being happy just _existin’_ with Michelle since before we were married, and what with my momma’s health being what it was we rushed headfirst into that one like a raging bull.”

Fiddleford tried to smile at that but failed spectacularly and it ended up a goofy grimace with both men staring, both uncomfortable and concerned for the other.

Fidds sighed and shook his head, he rubbed at his temples and Ford’s chest hurt. He didn’t have any magic fact that would fix this and it didn’t know what arbitrary combination of words would work to make his friend feel any better. He took a long gulp of his whiskey. His glass was almost empty and he didn’t feel a thing.

“Now I'm living with a gal who I don't really know all that well, and don't get me wrong, Ford, I still think she’s the Bee’s knees but we don't even have many interests in common. I'm an engineer she's a legal aide. She gardens, I build robot droids. I mean we're both busy people who love their work, but now we have a kid people are expecting her to give up her entire being to cater to this tiny person while I keep on makin’ the bacon.”

Fidds sighed pushing back his quiff, strands of light brown hair that sparkled near gold in the firelight. Ford’ chest clenched again, he was so disgustingly smitten, it was so sappy and predictable and against everything Ford thought he was about. Yet here was. Fiddleford kept talking.

“I can understand why she envies me but it's not really helping. I even offered to take care of Tate while she works part time but she didn't want to detract from the project. She's a selfless kid at heart.  Now she's lonely and bitter in a new town with a young baby, and I'm practically living here at this point because it's the only place where I can be myself ya know? I know you, Ford. We’ve known each other since we were eighteen, you know me better than my _wife_.”

He tried to pretend that didn’t feel like a blow to the solar plexus.  Stanford took a look steady breath and stared off into the flames.

“The grass always looks greener on the other side, Fidds. I may be awful at relationship stuff but even I can tell you that. I’m sorry things are difficult for you now, though.” He moved to rest a hand on his friend’s knee. His brain screamed at the contact. He moved his hand again.

“Thanks, Ford.” Fidds said softly, a hint of a smile on his face. The first flushes of alcohol blooming in his cheeks like roses.

“Anytime, my friend.” He hesitated “-and no need for us to go down to the lab if you don’t feel up to in tonight. I was just gonna catch up on journal stuff anyhow.”

“I might check my own notes in that case, something about the sigils on the last segment was really…I dunno really unsettlin’? I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere before.”

Stanford shrugged non-committedly. He doubted he _had_ seen them before, Bill had mentioned in passing they were ancient Mesopotamian. He finished his whiskey before he stood up to go and collect his journal from the other room.

“D’ya want a top-up?” asked Fidds refilling his own whiskey glass.

“Sure, one more can’t hurt.”

He heard a woman, possibly June, let out a noise of exhaustion.

‘Stanford this isn’t smart-’ she started. He ignored her, doing his best to tune her out. She kept droning on in the background. Ford collected his journal from his study.

“Shuddup June.” He muttered aloud, when he was out of Fiddleford’s earshot. “You're not my Ma.”

“Might as well be, you talk to me more than you do the real thing.”

Ford bit the soft inside of his cheek. He underestimated and drew blood which he spat into a tissue.

* * *

Ford didn’t remember the series of events that led up to the kiss, they’d kept talking, Ford even setting his journal down to focus on the conversation. He didn’t exactly remember what they talked about either. There had been some fond reminiscing, and Ford wasn’t completely blameless in this because brave and foolhardy from two and half whiskey,  he’d been sending out smoke signals, not expecting Fidds to return his attention. But then he’d leant over to set his glass down on the table in between their armchairs and all of a sudden Fiddleford’s face was there, cheeks flushed, hair all awry, lips slightly chapped from the cold.

“Fidds,” the nickname came off his breath like an oath as he drew back from the kiss, “No.”

The other man stopped and broke away. His expression faltered, wide blue eyes and parted lips.

He hesitated, glancing at Stanford then the floor.” No? But I thought…that's what you wanted?”

“I do want it, but it's doomed to fail, I'm… he looped his finger in the air, _all cuckoo_ and you're married, and even though Michelle and I don't get on, I know better than to... No matter how I feel. No matter how much it hurts.”

Fiddleford let out an exasperated laugh. He looked _magnificent_ , and rather angry.

“And you think I'm here like this for what? Fun? Shits and giggles? Stanford I may not always like my wife, but I do care for her and I don't exactly want to ruin my family. I'm doin’ this because …. Shit I don’t know any more maybe it's the alcohol …maybe it felt right.”

Stanford pulled away from him, ears ringing. His chest was screaming from the deep sea pressure building up in his ribcage, like a vacuum had opened in his heart. He didn’t hear Fiddleford swear that often, he thought idly.

“Kiss him!” fifteen different voices, different pitches accents and genders were screaming out.

”Kiss him back, you know you want this, don’t kid yourself with the moral high ground bullshit, take what you want with your bare hands and claim it.” That voice was male and aggressive and Ford didn’t feel like it was very dependable.

“Follow your heart, Fordsy” the one that sounded like Carla was off waxing poetic, spouting inane and embarrassing flowery quotes about love. He could ignore her. Where did his brain dig up the Oscar Wilde quotes from anyway?

“Don’t do it Stanford, it’ll only fuck you up even more,” Said June, “he's your only friend.” He trusted June, she’d never let him down.

“Love is nothing more than dopamine and oxytocin,” said another angry male voice, “focus on _science._ That’s your legacy.”

He didn’t know what to do, who to listen to. He didn’t want to face Fidds right now. He wanted out. He stood up and moved out of his chair.  Fiddleford did the same, fixing him with a strange look.

“Are ya okay, Ford?” He was asking “Ford? You’re shaking. Stanford!?” Fidds was holding him up as his posture started to crumble, like sand through an hourglass.

Ford tried to say he was fine, he tried to tell him how he felt but his tongue sublimed like dry ice into the atmosphere and the floor was coming for him, coming for his head, he thought. His cheek hit the wooden floor hard, knocking off his glasses.  

Somewhere his consciousness floated up around the ceiling near the corner of the skirting board. Stanford looked down at Fidds standing over his crumpled body and laughed the wretchedness of his own plight.

There was a weird sensation, like a current pulling him backwards. He didn’t fight it, merely floated.

  _‘All yours, Bill’_ he thought as a feeling of exhaustion washed over him and faded quickly again.

* * *

_(Fiddleford)_

“Woah Nelly! This isn't the lab, why’s ol’ Sixer blanked out on me here?”

“Oh, it's you.” Fidds dropped the hand he was holding to pull him up.  Goddammit this was not what Fidds wanted right now. He did not care for this Bill persona, he was reckless and showy and cared about nothing but results. But he was still part of Stanford the man he…the man he lo… _Oh._ Woo boy he was in trouble.

Bill sat up in Stanford’s body, his movements were a lot merrier, more robotic, than Ford’s his voice taking on am annoying nasal falsity. He twitched his nose and clicked his neck, then grinned staring straight at Fiddleford, eyes manic and wild.

“Yeah yeah, hullo to you too, Dorothy. How's Kansas these days?”

Fidds flinched at the nickname, Ford knew his accent was a sore point, Bill knew it too apparently and true to his nature he didn't give a pig’s ass.  He hated this persona. He wanted his Stanford back.

“Is Ford alright? He’s never switched so violently like this before. Was it somethin’ I said, Di- did he forget to take his meds again?” He was panicking and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it, a lot of things were happening and Fidds was having trouble parsing all of them.

“Gee, I sure hope so!  That stuff is bitter, it tastes like grapefruit and despair! It’s an acquired taste I tells ya! He’s better off without that garbage. Come on, Dorothy! Let's science! That’s what you’re here for, after all.”

He shuffled Stanford’s body like a zombie into the hallway. Fiddleford had to physically stand in front of Bill to get his attention and stop him heading to the lab entrance.

“No. I don't think we're heading to the lab tonight Bill, I-I'm still worried about Stanford.” He tried to make his voice as firm as possible when inside his heart was shaking like  a leaf.

“Don't be, he's fine!  He’s just doing his Brainiac thing, floating around the ceiling, thinking _stupid distracting_ thoughts. About you! Hahaha! Isn't that hilarious?! C’mon now help me get this train wreck on legs down to the lab” He tottered off on unsteady feet like a toddler learning to walk.

Fiddleford was at a loss for what else to do so he just followed after him, praying Bill had enough fine motor skills not to trip and knock his head, no, Stanford’s head, on the stairs on his way down.

“Why are his eyes all warm and fuzzy? Is this some kind of filter? How do I stabilise the movements? Left, left, left. Ugh! So blurry!” Bill was wobbling everywhere.

“Me and Ford, we've been drinking. His tolerance is fairly high though. I wouldn't worry about it."

“Ah, blood alcohol that explains it. Here Sixer, lemme get that for you.” Bill clenched a six-fingered hand around his wrist and held it still for a while.

“Uh what are you doin’ to him, exactly?” Fiddleford bristled.

“Unbinding the hydroxy groups from his haemoglobin. I don’t have time to party here. Not Yet”

Fidds rolled with it “Righto. whatever ya say, Bill.” He was bitter, finally he and Ford were getting a chance to address this _whatever_ they had going on and he was getting interrupted by a figment od Ford’s psyche. Like he knew the Pines family had some issues, but he wasn’t expecting something that could result in this.

“Hey Dorothy, pass me the uh…” he clicked his fingers and pointed at a random tool. “Fire hose.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. He needed another whiskey now. “I have a name, Bill. Also…that's a blowtorch.”

Well I _could_ call you Fiddleford Hadron McGucket but I don't have a stalk of hay in my teeth or a spittoon to hyuck into.” Bill spoke in Stanford’s soft-spoken mellow voice, and the words came out vicious and cruel. Fiddleford bit the inside of his lip and let it roll off his back. This wasn't his Ford. He told himself.

 Bill laughed manically at his own joke and at Fidds’ falling expression. “Look Fiddly-diddles, nicknames are simple, you're a bright eyed kid from Kansas, and so I call ya Dorothy. Dorothy the distraction. Now pass me that fiery blowtorch hose.”

Fidds did as he was told, with a clenched jaw and a silent prayer to whoever might hear it that Stanford would come out of this alright.

* * *

_(Stanford)_

Someone was touching his face.

He opened his eyes everything was lights and halos as his eyes adjusted. He pushed his glasses up his nose until he could see. _That was better_.

He was in his room, on his bed. His throat hurt.

“Ya fell asleep on the desk mid-tirade.” Said a familiar southern drawl.  “Bill did, I mean. I kinda stopped listenin’ halfway through. It wasn't exactly…” Fiddleford trailed off fumbling for a word.

Ford pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed both eyes with his fists.

“Coherent?” he croaked out. His throat really fucking hurt and there was something black on his fingertips. Carbon? Ink? Who knew?

His friend chuckled, Uncomfortable. “I was gonna say rational, but that works too.”

“God, I'm a mess, aren't I?” Stanford whispered sad, tired and really rather impressed at how much his brain continued to push the limits of his soft and nerdy body.

Fiddleford didn't say anything at first. Ford strained his eyes open. The other man was sitting in a chair across from him, the concern apparent on his kindly face.

“I'm so sorry, Ford. I didn't know how much you…l didn't know how much this would affect you.”

“You didn't know how much I cared about you...” Ford managed to say through the mocking laughter that entombed him, his energy phasing as he fought with all his might to stay in control.  

“You never said anythin’, heck you've been sitting across the breakfast table from me for years and I didn't suspect in the slightest.”

“How could I? You're married! We work together!  I need you on this project there's no way I can do this without you. I don't want to lose you, Fiddleford.” His head was screaming. There was a glowing ache in his cheekbone, like he'd been socked in the eye.

Lips pressed to his forehead, safety and grounding. The voices faded at the touch only to roar back louder when Fidds pulled away, nervous and red-faced.

“I'm not going to abandon you, Ford. I care about ya far too much for that.”

“God, I'm really…” he trailed off and stared at the floor. “I'm so sorry Fidds, I don't _want_ to feel these things. I'm not one for love stuff, you _know_ me. I mean after college I just thought it would go away.”

“Me too, if I'd have known back then I maybe I could have stayed, it could have been us…”

“Another universe, maybe.” He said with a sad chuckle, he placed his hand over Fidds’ own.

Fiddleford kissed him again, this time in a line like moth wings along his jaw. Ford both melted and flinched at the contact. His head was full of contradictions.

“I'm not a home wrecker, Fidds. We can't.” There was no gusto to his voice, he didn’t feel convinced by his own words in the slightest.  He knew what he wanted and right now he was fighting his own selfishness for the other man’s sake.

“I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”

“I know, I'll stop, it's just... ya really scared me”, Ford.

Ford moved to push the other man’s glasses up his nose where they’d slipped.

He felt awful, a hovering throbbing feeling like he was on the crest of a wave and any minute he would slap face first into the sand.  

“Sorry”, he said. He shook his head. “I told Bill to stop but he didn't hear me.”

Fiddleford didn’t meet his gaze. “He didn't listen, ya mean.”

“He's not a bad guy Fidds. He wouldn’t take control unwillingly, I needed the break.

“Yeah he’s a real _gentleman_. Five seconds here and he’d called me a hick and a distraction. ‘Scuse me if ain’t _enchanted_ by his debonair wit.”

Ford cringed. Shit Bill, that was uncalled for. “You're not a hick! I-I'm sorry he said that, that was an off-colour joke, but I can see why he thinks you are distracting, all this- whatever this is -it subtracts from our work.’

“Emotions aren't a side effect Stanford, Relationships aren't unnecessary complications you can't write off love as oxytocin and wasted time.”

He chuckled, hollow and angry. The essence of bitterness in the sound.

“It’d sure be nice if I could”.

Fidds’ brushed some hair out of his eyes. He fixed Stanford with a gaze like a kicked puppy.

“What are we going to do now?” he asked, and Stanford felt his stomach slowly start to descend through the floor.

“Well, I’m going to get some ice for my cheek if that's alright.” Ford spoke, ever the voice of pragmatism.

His head was loud and he wanted to lie down. Well, technically he was lying down. He wanted to continue lying down unaccompanied.

Worry tinged his friend’s tone. “Are you Okay? Do you need anything else? Do you think should I head home?”

He grabbed on to the last of those questions and hung on, taking a while to process it.

“I think that's probably for the best, Fiddleford.” He said, blunt and flat again.

"Is this just going to be another thing we don't talk about? Like in college?" his friend asked, sounding mournful and resigned.

"Oh would you _like_ to talk about it? Should I perhaps prepare you a presentation on it? With charts?" He huffed out a laugh at the anger in his voice, in the concern in Fiddleford’s eyes, for a few rolling seconds everything was hilarious. Then he tried to pull himself together enough to speak, but he did so in hissing hurtful tones.

“Oh here, if you look at Exhibit A you'll see a list of the meaningful relationships I have left in my life, _oh look!_ There's only one thing left! I _wonder_ who that is. Ooh! W-what's the largest percentage on this pie chart, Stanford? Oh well, if you look closely Fidds, you'll see that it's how much I fucking _hate myself!_ A big ol' slice of self-loathing. Nice and bitter.” He cracked his knuckles, six-fingered hands pulling into fists. 

“Ford. C’mon now.” Fiddleford evidently didn't know what to say.

_Well that made two of them._

His throat hummed, he swallowed the juvenile squeak in his voice.

Stanford licked his lips.

“You should go home, Fidds. Your family needs you.” It came out monotone as he slowly felt the concept of emotion slip off his tongue and into the air.

Someone or something was touching Ford’s hair. The fabric of reality rippled and shone like a heat haze, the alluring pull of leaving this whole shitshow for Bill to deal with buzzed briefly as he considered it. No, that was hardly professional.

“What about you?" Fiddleford was saying  "I can’t leave you in this state."

“I don’t need anyone, you know me.” He said with a tone of self-depreciation. 

The other man's face crumpled, all soft and kind and _hurt_. “Sometimes I _think_ I do.” He turned to leave,

'Stanford what the fuck are you doing' June piped up somewhere near Ford's left ear. She was right and he knew it, he;d almost had a good thing. A bad good thing, sure, but it was almost his. 

“Fiddleford wait. I- I'm sorry”. He stepped forwards, still a little shaky on his own feet and suddenly nervous and trembling like he was fifteen and awkward. Like it was his first kiss all over again down by the saltwater taffy store with a girl whose name he didn't remember or even care about and he never kissed again.  

He pressed his lips hard and clumsy against Fidds’ own, breathing him in like he was oxygen, the other man’s cheeks were soft and clean shaven and they blushed light pink at Stanford’s touch. The voices were silent in that moment, and the only danger he was aware of was the fear his heart might beat itself to shreds. Fiddlefords’ arms came around him and rested on his hips.

_Ford felt safe. Ford felt safe. Ford felt safe._

He was the one to break away finally, his hands dragging down and clutching at the fabric of Fidds' shirt for comfort, like he didn’t quite want him to leave even though they both knew it needed to happen.

“I’m sorry.” Ford said in earnest, and he wasn’t talking about the kiss, well not the action itself.

Fidds shook his head. “It's not completely your fault. 'm just as guilty as you.”

Stanford looked at his shoes. “I don't want to complicate anything.”

Fiddleford laughed. “Too late for that I’m afraid. We’ll just hafta wait and see where this goes, won't we? I am goin’ home tonight though.”

“I understand, I-I… _thank you_ , for putting up with me tonight.”

“Oh, Stanford.” He shook his head so fondly and his hair moved like feathers. Some soft emotion Ford couldn’t place spilling out his eyes and the corners of his lips. 

“Get some sleep, ya hear?”


End file.
